Mattia was in the kitchen. I didn’t know her, not yet anyway but I would over time. Wasn’t worried. We’d met at the interview about the room and she was enthusiastic about me moving in. Took it as a good sign remembering what the agent’d said about good karma – she’d sensed good karma when she spoke to both of them about the rental. Her other flatmate was a sweetheart. Spoke lousy English but a sweetheart.
When I came in she’d just finished cooking for herself, had her plate and was about to go to the table in the other room as I’d begun unpacking my groceries. Guess curiosity got the better of her. I put dinner napkins I’d bought on the top of the fridge, noticing she paused, put her plate down, put her napkin away, reached up, grabbed the package, opened it and took a napkin. As far as I knew my mouth hadn’t dropped open as I watched. After putting the package back, she picked up plate and utensils and continued on not saying a word. I’ll have to admit I was surprised she didn’t ask but for the sake of diplomacy I didn’t say anything. It’s not uncommon for dry goods such as napkins, paper towels, dish detergent and toilet paper to be used and replaced by all who share the house or apartment. It wasn’t mentioned during our first meeting though so I later spoke to her offering money toward household goods. Oddly she was aloof as she brushed at the air with her hand. Huh? It was explained most everything they used came from their store. If I wanted to use something different I’d have to buy it on my own. Well yeah, that’s normal, most of us have our favorite products but the topic of sharing was glossed over and my offer flippantly dismissed. Flippantly, that was it. Didn’t make much sense. An alarm was stirring but I distracted myself thinking of the location, the boutique across the street, the subway stop on the corner, the massive El Corte Ingles two blocks away and that restaurant, oh, what was its name that served eggs benedict located right near the train station. Still I’d felt I hadn’t even been here for five minutes, something’s not right yet, but I’ll keep an eye on things, mine in particular.
At the same time I was annoyed with myself even thinking like that.
It’s true what ever I make I usually Italianize, but does that mean the incense burning in the living room with the stove fan turned on in the kitchen immediately after I cook imply they don’t like Italian, or I should say she doesn’t? I can’t say I’ve met many people in my lifetime who didn’t go for Italian food. Not impossible though.
The soup is stirred
Say not a word
Honestly! I’m being absurd.